Ten days had passed since Charlie had met the mysterious Lorena in
Paris.
To both Charlie and Max--though now separated by the breadth of Europe--
they had been breathless, anxious, never-to-be-forgotten days.
The ominous words of Lorena ever recurred to him. Apparently the girl
knew far more than she had told him, and her declaration that
confirmation of Adams's charges would be found beyond that
white-enamelled door in Park Lane gripped his senses. He could think of
nothing else.
She had left him in the Rue de Rivoli, outside the Gardens, refusing her
address or any further account of herself. She had warned him--that
was, she said, all-sufficient.
He blamed himself a thousand times for not having followed her; for not
having sought some further information concerning the peril of old Sam
Statham.
Yet the afternoon following, just as he was about to drive from the
Grand Hotel to the Gare du Nord, to return to London, one of the clerks
from Old Broad Street had arrived, bearing a letter from the head of the
firm, giving him instructions to proceed to Servia at once and transact
certain business with the Government regarding certain copper
concessions in the district of Kaopanik. The deal meant the
introduction of a considerable amount of British capital into Servia,
and had support from his Majesty King Peter downwards. Indeed, all were
in favour save the Opposition in the Skuptchina, or Parliament, a set of
unruly peasants who opposed every measure the Pashitch Government put
forward.
The business brooked no delay. Therefore Charlie, that same night,
entered the Orient express, that train of dusty _wagons-lit_ which runs
three times a week between Paris and Constantinople, and three days
later arrived in Belgrade, the Servian capital.
He was no stranger in that rather pleasant town, perched high up at the
junction of the Save with the broad Danube. The passport officer at
Semlin station recognised him, and gave him a _visa_ at once, and on
alighting at Belgrade the little ferret-eyed man idling outside the
station did not follow him, for he knew him by sight and was well aware
that the Grand Hotel was his destination.
There are more spies in Belgrade than in any other city in Europe. So
much foreign intrigue is ever in progress that the Servian authorities
are compelled to support a whole army of secret agents to watch and
report. Hence it is that the stranger, from the moment he sets foot in
Belgrade to the moment he leaves it, is watched, and his every movement
noted and reported. Yet all is so well managed that the foreigner is
never aware of the close surveillance upon him, and Belgrade is as gay a
town in the matter of entertaining and general freedom as, well, as any
other you may choose to name.
During the days when, owing to the unfortunate events which terminated
the reign of the half-imbecile King Alexander and the designing woman
who became his Queen, when England had suspended diplomatic
negotiations, the great stakes held in the country by Statham Brothers
were in a somewhat precarious condition. For two years Servian finance
had been in anything but a flourishing condition, but now, under the
rule of King Peter, who had done his very utmost to reinstate his
country in its former flourishing position, the confidence of Europe had
been restored, and Statham Brothers were ready to make further
investments.
In Charles Rolfe the great millionaire had the most perfect confidence.
The letter he had sent him to Paris was clear and explicit in its
instructions. If the concessions were confirmed by the Prime Minister
Pashitch and the Council, a million dinars (or francs) were already
deposited in the National Bank of Servia, and could be drawn at an
hour's notice upon Charlie's signature.
So he drove to the Grand, the hotel with its great garish cafe, its
restaurant where the sterlet is perhaps more delicious than at the
Hermitage in Moscow, and its excellent Tzigane band. It was evening, so
he ate a light meal, and, fagged out by the journey, retired early.
He tried to sleep, but could not. The noise and clatter of the cafe
below, the weird strains of the gipsy music, the rattle of the cabs over
the cobbles, all combined to prevent slumber.
And, over all, was the vivid recollection of that rather handsome girl
who had called herself Lorena, and who had declared that the reason of
Statham's peril lay behind the door which he always kept so carefully
secured.
The hours passed slowly. He thought far more of Maud Petrovitch, and of
what Lorena had told him, than of the business he had to transact on the
morrow. He was there, in the city where Doctor Petrovitch had been
worshipped almost as a demi-god, where the people cheered lustily as he
drove out, and where he was called "The Servian Patriot." Where was the
statesman now? What was the actual truth of that sadden disappearance?
Why had not Maud written? Sorely she might at least have trusted him
with her secret!
The noise below had died away, and he knew that it must be two o'clock
in the morning, the hour when the cafe closed. Presently there came a
rap at his door, and the night-porter handed him a telegram. He tore it
open mechanically, expecting it to be in cipher from old Sam, but
instead saw the signature "Max."
Scanning it eagerly, he held his breath. The news it contained
staggered him. It stated that his sister Marion had been discharged
from Cunnington's, and her whereabouts were unknown.
"Have seen Statham, but cannot discover where your sister has gone. Can
you suggest any friend she may have gone to visit? What shall I do? Am
distracted. Wire immediately."
Marion left Cunnington's! Discharged, the telegram said. Was it
possible, he thought, that old Sam would allow her discharge. He was
certain he would not. He was his sister's friend, as he was his own.
Max's telegram added further to the burden of mystery upon him. What
could it all mean?
Marion has evidently left Cunnington's and disappeared! He tried to
think to whom she would go in her distress. There was her Aunt Anne at
Wimborne, her cousin Lucy who had married the bank manager at Hereford,
and there was her old schoolfellow Mary Craven who had only recently
married Pelham, the manager of an insurance company in Moorgate Street.
Those three addresses he wrote on a telegraph form, urging Max to make
inquiry and report progress. This he despatched, and again threw
himself down, full of dark forebodings.
If Marion had really been discharged, she was in some disgrace. What
could it possibly be? That it was something which she dared not face
was proved by the fact that she had not confided in Max. She knew
Maud's place of concealment, without a doubt; therefore, what more
natural than she should have joined her?
The whole affair was a complete enigma, rendered the more tantalising by
the distance which now separated him from London.
Next morning he rose, took his coffee, and went out along the broad
central boulevard, gay and lively in the sunlight, thronged by
well-dressed ladies and smart officers in uniforms on the Russian
model--as bright and pleasant a scene as can be witnessed anywhere
outside Paris. Up the hill, past the royal palace, he went. In the
royal garden, separated from the roadway by high iron railings, the band
of the Guards were playing, and over the palace floated the royal
standard, showing that his Majesty was in residence.
Adjoining the palace was a large square castellated building, painted
white, and into this he turned, saluted by the gendarmes on duty.
Ascending a broad flight of steps, he passed through the swing doors,
presented his card, and was shown into the large antechamber of the
President of the Council of Ministers, the strongest man in Servia,
Monsieur Nicholas Pashitch.
The long windows commanded a wide view of the tows and of the broad
Danube shining in the morning sun, while upon the walls of the sombre
apartment with its floor of polished oak and antique furniture covered
with crimson plush, was a portrait of King Peter and several full length
paintings of dead and gone statesmen.
"His Excellency is engaged for a few moments with the Turkish Minister,"
exclaimed a frock-coated secretary in French. "But he will give m'sieur
audience almost immediately. His Excellency was going to Pirot, but has
remained in order to see you. He received your telegram from Budapest."
And so Charlie Rolfe remained, gazing out of the window upon the quaint
eastern town, watching the phantasmagoria of life up and down its
principal thoroughfare. A company of infantry, headed by their band,
marched past, hot and dusty, on their return from the early morning
manoeuvres which the King had attended, as was his daily habit; and as
it passed out of his sight the long doors opened, and he was ushered
into the adjoining room, the private cabinet of his Excellency the
Premier, an elderly, pleasant-faced old gentleman with a long grey
beard, who rose from his big writing-table to greet his visitor. The
meeting was a most cordial one, his Excellency inquiring after the
health of his old personal friend Mr Statham.
Then, at the Prime Minister's invitation, Charlie seated himself, and
explained the nature of his mission. Monsieur Pashitch heard him with
interest to the end. Then he said: "Only yesterday his Majesty
expressed to me his desire that we should attract British capital into
Servia, therefore all that you tell me is most gratifying to us. Mr
Statham, on his last visit here, had audience of his Majesty--on the
occasion of the loan--and I think they found themselves perfectly in
accord. The development of the Kaopanik has long been desired, and I
will this afternoon inform his Majesty of your visit and your
proposals."
Charlie then produced certain documents, reports of two celebrated
mining engineers who had been sent out to Kaopanik by Statham Brothers,
and these they discussed for a long time.
Presently Rolfe said:
"By the way, your Excellency, have you heard of late anything from
Doctor Petrovitch?"
"Petrovitch!" exclaimed the old statesman, starting quickly.
"Petrovitch? No!" he almost snapped.
"He has been living in England quite recently, but of late--well, of
late I've lost sight of him. I know," he went on, "that you and he had
some little difference of opinion upon the Customs war with Austria."
"Yes, we did," remarked the grey-bearded old gentleman, with a smile.
"We differed upon one point. Afterwards, however, I found that my ideas
were unsound, and I admitted it in the Skuptchina. I heard that
Petrovitch was in London. The King invited him to come to Belgrade
about six months ago, as he wished to consult him in private, but he
declined the invitation."
"Why?"
"I think he feared on account of a political conspiracy which is known
to have been formed against him. As you know, the Opposition are his
bitter opponents."
"And they are opponents of his Majesty also," Rolfe remarked.
"Exactly--a fact which for the peace of Servia is most unfortunate."
"Then you have no idea where I could find the Doctor?"
"Not the least. But--" and he paused, thinking for a moment.
"Well?"
"If I remember aright my wife told me that she had met his daughter Maud
at dinner at the British Legation one night recently."
"Then she's here--in Belgrade!" Rolfe cried.
"I'm not quite certain. I did not pay much attention to what she told
me. I was preoccupied with other things. But I will ask her, and let
you know. Or you might ask the wife of the British Minister. You know
her, of course?"
"Yes," Rolfe answered, excitedly. "I will call upon her this afternoon.
I'm sure I'm very much indebted to your Excellency for this
information."
And his spirits rose again at the thought that his sweet-faced
well-beloved was safe and well, and that, in all probability, she was
actually in that city.